Zim: Automata
by raemey
Summary: A horrid attempt at salvaging an already bungled "Phase Two" sends Zim (and Dib) hurdling through the Florpus and onto a desolate version of Earth—a planet where only androids and machine lifeforms remain. In the midst of endless war, Zim and Dib must find a way home before this new world tears away at everything they have, and everything they are.
1. Prologue

**( ·** **· ·** **· )**

The hoarse wail of scorching winds, the endless expanse of sandy dunes, the buried remains of abandoned structures…

And the faint bellows of both the living and the dead.

A dark humanoid figure, female in build, sprints forward-

-to enter the desert zone

Every step the figure takes is quick, silent, and deliberate. It knows exactly where its targets are located, despite the landscape's monotonous layout, but whether this is a skill to be celebrated or pitied is something that it refuses to consider. Rather, this is a skill that is necessary, above all, for survival in this world. To falter at any moment and reveal the tiniest lapse in cunning could bring an end to its solitary crusade.

That cannot happen. Failure is not allowed.

It must fight.

Nine seconds pass, and the figure is nearing its destination. It skids to a stop and proceeds forward with a purposeful strut, for storming the area at full speed could result in an unnecessary frenzy of explosions and bullets. Fortunately, the targets are congregating in a low ditch today, a scenario that allows for the rare chance of spying and surveying from a higher vantage point. With the ever-present possibility of the enemy displaying sporadic, dangerous, and even sometimes suicidal behaviors, opportunities like these should not be taken for granted.

The figure walks to the edge of the ditch, crouches down, and peers over.

At the very bottom, wandering around and digging in the sand, are six stubby mechanical contraptions, roughly the same height as the figure watching them. They all resemble a child's first wind-up toy, simple in design with rounded, yellow eyes set on rounded heads atop rounded bodies. But it's the way they move, the way they react to certain stimuli, that could not be any more complex.

In fact, one could accurately compare their behaviors to those of a hu-

…

The figure places a trembling hand on the sword sheathed at its hip, and continues to observe.

One contraption uses their large blocky hands to pick up an object from the sand and show it to the others. Two of them hop over to get a closer look, tilting their heads with piqued curiosity. Another two whir and buzz with simulated dissatisfaction, and turn away to continue digging for hidden treasures. The last one, engrossed in its own personal search, ignores everything around it and obsessively digs for every little "this" and "that" it can find.

The figure scowls at the sight.

After taking a quick look around and concluding that no other threats are nearby, it unsheathes its sword and prepares to descend.

But it overhears a synthetic, electronic cry from below-

"Brother! Brother!"

-and stares wide-eyed into the ditch.

A contraption hobbles excitedly over to an identical neighbor, small rock in hand. "I got this for you…brother!"

The figure clenches its teeth, tightens its grip on the sword.

And jumps down.

The resulting carnage is brief in length, yet no less brutal in execution. It all starts with a single throw of the sword into the head of a contraption, a blow that forces it to fall over and explode into oily bits of scrap metal. This captures the attention of the other five, whose eyes shift to a furious, burning red, but before they can even begin to formulate a method of retaliation, the figure is picking its sword up off the ground and throwing it again- only this time, the sword is spinning, end-over-end like a buzz saw.

The arc of the sword's trajectory sends it flying through the shells of three more contraptions, slicing them in half before returning to the figure's hand. A trio of explosions follows immediately after- punctuated by the scattering of countless fleeting sparks.

And with that, only two are left.

The figure turns to its remaining targets, fully intending to wipe them out in the same swift spectacle-like fashion as their other cohorts.

What it witnesses makes it stop, though, and freeze up.

A contraption is lying on the ground, motionless, with dulled yellow eyes and a large piece of shrapnel sticking out of its dented body. Next to it is the other contraption, bending over and nudging its fallen ally with shivering urgency, its own eyes flickering between bright and dim.

It calls out.

"Wake up…Wake up…brother…"

The figure closes its free hand into a tight fist, stomps toward the final target, and stands right behind it.

"Brother…please…"

The sword is raised with both hands, blade pointing down.

"I'm scared…"

A single strike.

The cries cut off.

\+ . + . + . + . + . + . + . +

The figure climbs out of the ditch, the lingering smell of oil and smoke still stuck to its skin. With its current mission completed, there is no need to stay in this area. Thousands of those mechanical things still litter the world, and another second spent not hunting them down is another second added to their manufactured lives.

That cannot happen. Failure is not allowed.

…

Before it can press on, a tiny light shimmers in the corner of the figure's eye, grabbing its attention. It turns to find the source, and notices, about ten feet away, the exposed, glowing center of a cut-open black orb.

The core of a contraption.

Its "heart."

The force behind one of those past explosions must have flung the orb out of the ditch and onto the surrounding sand- or maybe this core is the sole remnant of a battle that took place way before the events of today. Regardless, the figure doesn't want to look at it anymore, so it walks up and crushes the damned thing with its heeled foot.

But the muffled, far-off pleas keep ringing in its ear. Someone, somewhere, is still crying out for their brother.

No one answers. Everyone is dead. Everything is gone.

It won't stop.

The figure shuts its eyes, shakes its head. Multiple voices are shouting, reaching out, begging for help.

It won't stop, it won't stop. It's too much.

They're getting louder. It's all bleeding together.

The water's rising. Air's running out.

It's-!

Something rips through the atmosphere with a titanic sonic boom. The figure's eyes dart upward, and it sees a single bright dot tear through the sky, splitting the clouds apart in the process.

For the first time in ages, there's a tug at its own "heart."  
A word slips past its lips, but the wind swallows it whole.

"-"

There's a deafening bang as the dot collides with the earth about three miles to the east. Massive sand plumes erupt from the impact site, the sudden movement of the landscape simultaneously unearthing and destroying millennia-old rock formations. However, amidst all that chaos, a smaller, not-as-bright speck descends from above and crashes into the ground, screaming with glee the whole way down.

**\ ** **/ **


	2. Memories of Dust, Pt I

The desert terrain- nothing exists here except for the overwhelming presence of _nothing_. Sure, you've got an endless supply of dunes to look at and a schmillion pounds of sand to choke on, but those can hardly be considered "things to do." In fact, there is so much nothing here, that the gods that created this world must go nuts at the mere sight of _something_ happening, _something_ arriving to break the monotony-

Something like a huge explosion caused by an extraterrestrial object making painful, high-velocity contact with the Earth.

Well, fortunately for those hypothetical gods, that's exactly what happened. Anyone within a three-mile radius of the epicenter (which is probably no one because who is dumb enough to waste their time out here) would have instantly been eradicated by the fast-moving onslaught of rock and sand. Those farther out, however, would have suffered an even greater affliction- a scratched cornea from sand getting in their eye.

But thankfully, that explosion took place days ago, so the people that got destroyed and the eyes that got scratched aren't an issue anymore. The crater left behind by all that mess has long since disappeared into the sand, and the dust in the air has…well, it's still in the air, just blown about by the winds.

Yes, the desert has finally returned to its long-standing status of stillness. "Nothing", once again, dominates these arid lands.

…

That _would_ be the case, however, if not for the presence of two blackened, jagged grass blades poking out from the ground where the crater's center used to be.

Those gods must be having the time of their lives right now. To think that the past explosion has gifted this empty zone with the smallest hint of _life_! Sure, the grass isn't healthy-looking, and it's bent at weird angles, but this, right here, could be a sign of _something_ taking place. _Something_ bigger than _anything_ this world has ever seen.

Or it could just be some janky grass with no additional meaning or purpose. That's completely okay. It's more than plausible, too.

Plausibility, though, has no bearing here.

Not anymore, at least.

One of the grass blades twitches ever so slightly, and a large mechanized spider leg shoots out of the ground, a few inches to the right. It wiggles and shakes to release some of the sand stuck in its wiring, then summons a red light out of its pointed end (kind of like a big laser pen) to scan the immediate area.

But it doesn't seem like the spider leg is working too well today, as it stutters and sparks at the hinges, trying its hardest to carry out its task. Eventually, it just gives up, and lets out a little _ping!_ to get the hypothetical ball moving. Heeding the call, three more spider legs pop out of the ground, joining its solitary companion in surrounding the grass.

To any person watching, this would probably look pretty darn cool- four spider legs made of an unknown material, standing at attention and waiting for further orders. Heck, with all this intrigue, one might expect an even greater event to take place next.

That doesn't happen, so shame on anyone that expected more.

One of the spider legs fritzes and goes limp, another leg snaps in half and falls to the ground, and a third straight up detonates itself, deciding that it isn't worth staying functional anymore.

Only one remains, and in an admittedly uplifting and noble display of fabricated willpower, it extends itself as far as it can and stabs its pointed end into the sand.

Then it starts pulling itself forward.

With wobbly precision, the spider leg continues its pattern of extending, stabbing, and pulling, all while towing the grass along with it.

"Mmph-"

The grass lets out a sound. Extend, stab, pull.

"Mmmmph-!"

There's a stronger pull, and the grass's entire length breaches the sand, the jagged strands now revealed to be attached to the top of a bald green dome. Whatever's making those sounds, however, is still buried- and it's starting to sound really miffed.

"Mmmmmph mmmmph mmh!"

The leg gives one last pull, and out comes an insectoid _alien,_ green all over and decked out in some pink and magenta garb.

"GAAAH! At last, I am FREE!"

Because the green alien has been liberated from his sandy prison, one will notice that those black blades of grass are really his segmented antennae, now lying flat against his head as he coughs up some sand from those "lungs" of his. Also, upon closer inspection, the spider legs are coming out of a backpack-like shell that's grafted to his spine. Of course, three of those spider legs are broken and useless, so they (or at least parts of them) are dangling lifelessly as the alien struggles to catch his breath.

"This…_sand_ thought it could keep me trapped," he says, "but now _I_ get to show it what happens to those that stand in the way of INVADER ZIM!"

He spits at the sand.

"There!" he says with delight, feeling a little taller than usual. "Now it has been shown."

\+ . + . + . + . + . + . + . +

After spending the last minute rubbing the sand and grime from his fuchsia-colored eyes and forcing those spider legs into his backpack-thing, the green alien named Zim turns his attention to solving his latest predicament: determining the reason why he's in a desert. He's admittedly having a hard time knowing where to start, as the last thing he recalls is carrying out his latest and greatest scheme…"Phase Two, Second Part to Phase One." Everything was going according to plan- his leaders had arrived to witness the end of his mission (which included the destruction of the lesser beings known as _humans_), and Zim, finally, had bested his greatest rival, that miserable jackfruit-headed human. With nowhere to go and no one to depend on, that irritating meatbag could do nothing but watch as his world crumbled before his very eyes!

Or…something like that.

"Wait, did that really happen?"

It had to have happened! A plan formulated by Invader Zim can do nothing else but succeed. His archenemy was destroyed. His mission was completed.

But if that's the case, why is he in the middle of a desert? And why is his memory of Phase Two's culmination so foggy?

The answer, of course, lies in his PAK.

Zim reaches behind himself and knocks on the dotted shell stuck to his back. That right there is his PAK, the highest biotechnical achievement in the history of his home planet, Irk. His people, the Irkens, hold the great honor of having a PAK melded to their spinal cord seconds after their hatching, and with this technology, they can access the whole of Irken knowledge and understanding.

All the owner's memories are stored in there as well, further proving Zim's suspicion that something happened to his PAK before waking up.

It's all _so_ inconvenient.

Zim tries summoning the other tools from his PAK- a laser, an organ-harvester, an atmosphere-conserving bubble helmet, and a two-way communication device- to test their functionality, but all they do is whizz around and flail in all directions before finally shutting down and retreating into the PAK's shell.

"The damage is worse than I thought. I'll have to find a way to induce a manual reset before it deteriorates further."

He puts his hands on his surprisingly bony hips (did they always protrude this much?) and shouts a single word.

"GIR!"

…

No response. Whoever this GIR is, he's either too far away to hear his name, or close enough to reply but can't be bothered to do so.

"GIR! GET OVER HERE!"

Nothing.

"Great. I'm certain _he's_ the one that started this mess, and _now_ he's hiding from me. Well, thanks to their superior Irken coding, SIR units can't stray too far from their masters, so I know he's _somewhere_ out there." Zim narrows his eyes. "Oh, I will find him, and when I do, HE WILL-

-_hack, hack, wheeeeeze_!"

Zim bends over to cough up more sand.

"Okay, enough of this!" he says, standing back up. Zim knows there's a criminally low chance of the artificial intelligence in his PAK maintaining peak performance right now, and there are many, many other less technical methods he can depend on to determine his, and by extension, GIR's, location. But an Irken without a usable PAK cannot be considered Irken at all, so he belts out a command in order to hopefully alleviate his concerns.

"Computer, perform a diagnostic on your processors, and verify-"

A sickly static seeps from the PAK.

"Bzzzzztscccrrrrrrzzccchhhffflorp-p-p output criticzzzzxz…"

"Eh? What is this?"

"Dddaaaata overlooooaaazzzzx mininmininiminmimoooosssccrr…"

"Wait, did it say 'Minimoo-'"

"I CAN'T DO THISANYMOOoooooORE NOooo leave me alooOOONE."

A cheerful chime marks the end of that.

Zim decides to ignore…whatever that was and zeroes in on the name his computer partially mentioned.

"Ah, Minimoose, my, heh, _other_ sidekick." And the one he should be thanking for solidifying his tentative, but soon to be proven, victory over humanity. As the sole wielder of the power to harness dark cosmic energy, it's not difficult to see why the tiny purple moose had graduated to Zim's more competent second-in-command. Plus, he's just sooo cute. All that destructive power packed into a body no larger than a stuffed animal- now that's some ingenious design work right there.

Zim chuckles to himself. He feels kind of bad- though not enough to really _feel_ bad, mind you. Minimoose hasn't been around for nearly as long as GIR, so it's regrettably easy to give more attention to the older fool's mishandlings, but if one thing's for sure, that moose has had a huge impact on every scheme he's gotten his nubby hands on. There was that one time he helped in taking over Christmas and they were all dressed up as platypuses and-

"Errgh!" Zim bangs on the sides of his head. "No, I need to think!" He then taps his chin. "Minimoose has the freedom to be wherever he wants, and I never figured out how to track him, so there's a good chance he isn't close by. I also have no way of contacting either him or GIR." He sighs. "For this, I'll have no choice but to rely on my innate Invader Abilities to get out of this mess."

For the ones unaware of what these "Invader Abilities" entail, they're last ditch survival tactics only to be used when all other means, like Artificial Intelligence and PAK tool sets, have been exhausted. Luckily for Zim, none of those are working, so he'll have to depend on the simple, yet undeniably helpful skills he picked up in the Academy.

And he picked them up _very_ well, thank you. Best to not doubt his prowess.

Zim ponders his plan of action. "GIR is equipped with a unique heat signature courtesy of Irk's finest engineers. Once I use my _amaaazing_ _antennae_, I'll be able to find that troublesome servant." A light bulb turns on in his head. "Yes, yes, and different areas of the universe have different underlying scents. By focusing on that, I'll be able to identify where on Earth I've landed, or what _other_ planet I've stumbled onto."

Zim starts to wonder if he even needs his PAK at this point, but as stated before, no PAK means no Irken status, so he obliterates that thought.

To prepare himself, he smooths out his antennae, as having any foreign substances like sand or dirt on them could damper his senses.

He's ready.

Zim takes in a deep breath, something a human would never do unless they wanted to inhale some sand, but a fine choice for an Irken since none of them have nostrils.

Next, he closes his eyes. Scrunches his face. Wiggles his antennae.

And the information _floods_ in.

Everything he needed to know overruns his brains- the one in his head and the broken one in his PAK. Yes, he can sense GIR, that's a relief, but he can also sense twelve similar, weaker heat signals coming from the same area. Not to mention the countless signals currently dotting other parts of the landscape.

Zim sweats. Where exactly is he? Signatures of this type never even existed on Earth-

_Wait_.

Earth. Earth had a smell, the low-lying, disgusting scent of _pork and beans, _but none of that is here. Zim wiggles his antennae some more, trying to pinpoint exactly what he's smelling.

…

It's _nothing_ he's familiar with.

As per the requirements for graduation from the Academy, Zim had to study the scents of every planet on the Irken star maps and correctly identify them. His final test, however, was to determine the overarching scent of the entire _universe_, something he was able to do with ease:

The tell-tale smell of taquitos.

He can't even sense _that_.

No, this smell is entirely different. It's a…fishy smell, reminiscent of the pieces of sliced meat in those specialty tacos that GIR would order takeout of.

There's no pork and beans. No taquitos.

Where _is_ he?

Zim opens his eyes. There are multiple heat signatures that rival GIR's, and foreign scents unlike anything he's learned. He's nowhere near Earth. Nowhere near his own stretch of space.

He goes still, looks down at his hands, and catches a glimpse of his lower body in the process.

…what on Irk happened to him?

He twists and turns to look at himself from any angle he can. It's like his whole body has been stretched out, his limbs and torso longer than ever before. Strangely enough, his hips are also more pronounced, probably capable of hanging clothes off of, and his shoulders are much wider as well, lending him a more angular profile- nothing like his normal, completely acceptable and more physically appealing form.

Zim closes his hands and starts running towards GIR's location. If he doesn't fix all this soon, then who knows what else will happen.

\+ . + . + . + . + . + . + . +

Somewhere, among the dilapidated remains of a long-forgotten city, a moose nonchalantly chews its grass while watching a bright dot fall from the sky.

**( ·****· ·****· ) \ **** / ( ·****· ·****· )**


End file.
